


You Don't Forget

by TheMagicMicrobus (CallMeCaptainOrSir)



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Suicide Attempt, Blood, Depressed Tony Stark, Depression, Hurt Tony Stark, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Beta Read, Overdose, Protective Natasha Romanov, Protective Rhodey, Rhodey Is a Good Bro, Suicide Attempt, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 05:11:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11730192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeCaptainOrSir/pseuds/TheMagicMicrobus
Summary: There are things you see that you never forget. You never truly move past.At the same time, you're glad you saw it.Tony Stark should be dead. Two people won't let him be.





	You Don't Forget

**Author's Note:**

> This is kinda a reboot for my writing. It short and just a little too bitter to be sweet. 3am cathartic introspection, as most of my work has been these days.
> 
> This reads considerably better on a desktop, there is a concrete layout aspect that lines up better on a larger screen.

Somethings you don’t ever forget.

         The feeling of a belt as it falls across your shoulders.

                The sound of your own back snapping.

                       The blood of your first kill.

                                    The blood of your best friend.

Natasha knew this. Rhodey knew this. They were warriors, killers. They’d seen battle and lost people to it before.

                                                       So                Many                People.

                                                       Screaming and silent,

                                                       watching them fall just ahead of you,

                                                      not noticing they didn’t make it back until you turn to congratulate them on a mission well done.

This was different. Things like this don’t happen at home.

 

* * *

 

You don’t go looking for your roommate only to find him passed out in a ball in the middle of your tiny dorm room.

Empty bottles:

                whiskey,                opiates,                a bottle of tylenol,                sleeping pills,                scotch,                his migraine meds.

You don’t have to call 911 as you check for his breathing. Even for a 15 year old he’s too goddamn skinny and that pulse is too damn hard to find.

 

* * *

 

In a mansion in South America, a warehouse in eastern Europe, a yacht somewhere in the Atlantic; blood pooling on the floor, red tinged water from under the bathroom door is a

victory.

It belongs here. It doesn’t even matter whose it is. It means a mission well done, or the well deserved punishment for a failure.

                         But it’s someone else’s ceiling that starts leaking in an hour. It someone else who gets annoyed,

                                                                                    then curious,

                                                                                    then worried.

Someone else who runs upstairs hoping to god that someone else was just forgetful.

That the red wasn’t really there,

                                                   just a trick of the light,

                                                                                         a trick of the mind.

It shouldn’t be you who breaks down the door to find that same boy in the bathtub. Just as small, just as determined

to                      d       i           s              s                a                  p                  p                    e                           a                            r.

Pulse just as thin when you do your best to be careful, dragging him into the bedroom.

                          Twenty years later, binding his wrists

                          like someone else once bound the medicine cabinets

                                                                                                           shut.

 

* * *

 

All soldiers have nightmares. The ones who believed in their cause tend to have fewer.

                                                       Natasha tends to have more.

But on a battlefield it’s easier to tell yourself that you did what you had to. When it’s your hand that pulled the trigger, you can carry that blame. At least you have a place to put it.

{But how can you blame him when you’re so damned relieved that he’s still breathing.}

You know that you would end any life to insure that his would keep going. It’s harder when you know there’s no target, no way to end this with a bullet.

{At least not one you’ll accept.}

It’s been three years for Natasha and twenty three for Rhodey. Both still see it every time Iron Man takes a hit and Tony Stark takes a moment too long to stand back up. Both still stop breathing when Tony doesn’t come into the room. Both still spend their nights staring at the ceiling and wondering how they hadn’t seen it.

What they would do if they never did.

**Author's Note:**

> In case this was confusing:  
> This is the perspectives of Natasha and Rhodey, thinking about two times that Tony tried to kill himself. The first was when he was in college, he overdosed and Rhodey found him before he stopped breathing. The second, he slit his wrists and Natasha found him before he bled out. So this story is mostly them thinking about how, of all the people that they've lost or come close to losing, seeing Tony try to kill himself is by far the hardest to forget.


End file.
